Down Mexico Way

by Drew McGunn

  Hays had hoped their defeat had demoralized the Mexican army, but if Almonte was sending troops back to keep an eye on the road to Monterrey, then obviously, they were not as defeated as he had hoped.

  He wheeled his mount around and looked to the east. Nearly fifty miles separated him and his company from the rest of the army in Monterrey. How far would the Mexican lancers backtrack? With scarcely more than thirty men, did he really want a knock-down fight with their lancers? The rider was stroking his horse’s neck as the animal continued to breath heavily. “Private, how many men do you reckon you saw?”

  “Somewhere between one and two hundred.”

  One hundred lancers and he’d risk a battle. The revolvers and rifles his men carried gave him a disproportionate advantage over the lancers. But if there were two hundred, that was a seven to one numeric advantage. What was it that General Travis had said? Quantity has a quality all its own.

  There had been a trail which veered from the road a mile or two back. It led to an adobe hacienda, nestled in the foot hills of the Sierra Madres. He was loath to retreat further until he knew the size of cavalry force moving his way. He thought it likely he and his company could shelter there until the lancers passed by. A few minutes later, the company galloped back the way they had come.

  Less than an hour after that, Hays sized up the smallish hacienda. The two-story building faced the winding trail, which meandered through a dense field of mesquite trees and cactus plants. It backed up against a steep hill.

  Pounding on the building’s door brought nothing but an echoing boom. Hays figured the owner had fled to Saltillo when the retreating army came through a few days before. The hacienda was more than a mile away from the road between Monterrey and Saltillo and he hoped the cavalry patrol would pass them by.

  If he was wrong though, he thought the hacienda had a certain appeal. It hadn’t been so long ago the Comanches and Apaches raided this far south. The narrow windows would make excellent places from which riflemen could shoot. The building’s second floor jutted out, creating a covered porch over the front of the building. Holes could easily be cut in the wooden floor, creating a kill zone against the front wall.

  Yes, he thought. This would do for a defensive position in the unlikely event the lancers came this way.

  ***

  It was the height of foolishness for Almonte to accompany the regiment of Lancers, at least according to his adjutant. As he rode by an abandoned wagon and the other detritus from the retreat earlier in the week, he wasn’t sure he disagreed. He glanced over at General Sesma’s horse and thought the animal was in even worse shape than at the beginning of the retreat from Monterrey. Now, though, instead of constantly moving away from Travis’s army, his lancers were determined to scout the road and to alert the rest of the army to the Texians’ approach.

  But however decrepit his mount may appear; the normally dour cavalry general was in a buoyant mood. With half an ear, Almonte listened to the other officer. “I’m convinced Seguin’s cavalry are in nearly as rough a shape as we are. Add to that, the men he has assigned to keep their supply lines open, that fool of a Tejano won’t have more than a light cavalry screen with which to advance.”

  “If you say so, General Sesma.” Almonte’s response was devoid of emotion. After a campaign far worse than he had anticipated, he found Sesma’s unfounded optimism troubling. Caution had allowed him to inflict hundreds of casualties against a better trained and equipped enemy. “Be mindful that you’ve got most of our eyes and ears here. We want to know where the Texians are, not to get into a fight that reduces our forces further.”

  Sesma smiled expansively as a troop of lancers trotted to the east. “Of course, General.”

  Later in the afternoon, the same troop raced back to where Almonte and Sesma were slowly riding down the center of the road. “General! There’s signs of Texian cavalry nearby.”

  Almonte, curiosity piqued, allowed the excited men to lead them to where a trail intersected with the road. To him, it looked no different than the rest of the road, where an army of five thousand had trod only a few days before. But one of the lancers threaded his way down the side trail until he stopped and indicated that the rest of the men should join him. A small patch of brownish cloth had snagged on the thorns of a cactus plant.

  While it was a thin reed to rely upon, Almonte found his pulse quickening. He held his peace as Sesma ordered several men forward to explore the trail. As the lancers disappeared down the path, he found himself making small talk with the cavalry commander. He was about to respond when a flurry of gunshots echoed up the trail.

  ***

  The horses had been staked out behind the hacienda. A battered windmill, paint peeling from the wooden frame, fed an anemic stream of water into a series of troughs. With any luck, Hays thought, once the lancers had passed down the road, the company’s mounts would be rested and watered.

  He heard one of his men shouting his name and a few seconds later, several shots rang out. Hays raced through the back door and down the center hallway which divided the building in half. The front door was wide open. Several Rangers crowded around it, rifles pointing toward the dense brush beyond the front yard. A blue-jacketed lancer lay face down on the trail. His mount had moved back, where the horse had paused to nibble on a stray clump of grass. Beyond that, Hays watched two more horsemen disappear down the trail.

  “Get out of the damned door,” he growled. So much for avoiding detection. He swore as the men closed the door and dropped a heavy wooden bar across it, a legacy from the days when the owner’s constant fear had been Indian raids.

  Despite the worry he felt for placing his men in such an unforgiving position, his heart swelled with pride as those who needed to, retrieved their rifles from their saddle scabbards without any orders. In short order, every window facing the trail was manned with one or more riflemen.

  The odds were against him, Hays knew. If one of his men could skirt the hills behind the hacienda, and get around the Mexican lancers, he could get word back to the army in Monterrey. His situation was dire, and he picked the company’s youngest Ranger and hastily wrote a note to General Seguin.

  His rider disappeared through the brambles and thorns of the heavy cover of mesquite trees that ran up the hillside. The hopes of Hays and his Rangers went with the young rider. If he was unable to beat back the lancers, at best, it would take Seguin three or four days to lift the siege.

  The sun still hung low in the western sky when a dismounted lancer appeared on the trail, holding a white flag. With days to go until a relief column could arrive, Hays knew he needed to play for time. He allowed the lancer to approach the hacienda. Without a word, the lancer approached the door and delivered a sealed letter to Hays. He broke the wax seal and perused the letter. His command of written Spanish was far worse than the spoken word, and when he saw the letter was in English he sighed in relief.

  In the letter, he and his men were promised safety if they surrendered. The letter also offered a broader truce with General Travis and offered a prisoner exchange between the two armies. Hays’ eyebrows raised as he scanned the letter. When he saw that it was signed by none other than General Juan Almonte, he began to understand. Despite Santa Anna’s history of ordering the execution of prisoners, rumors persisted that Almonte was opposed to such policies. But could Almonte arrange such an exchange? Hays was disinclined to doubt Almonte’s intent but questioned whether he could deliver on such a promise.

  The lancer remained on the trail, holding onto his white flag, near the tree line, waiting for Hays’ response. He was torn with indecision. What would happen if the Mexicans attacked? Could he and his men hold them off long enough for the young Ranger to find General Seguin and bring a relief column? Hays couldn’t say. The uncertainty weighed heavily on him.

  Time passed, as the sun ebbed below the mountains to the west, and a twilight held sway around the hacienda. However much he wanted to trust Almonte, in the end, it was his ove
rwhelming distrust of Almonte’s president that decided Hays’ fate. He and his men would fight.

  ***

  A ragged volley of musket shots lashed out from the tree line after the messenger disappeared down the trail. The battle was on. “Find your target, boys!” Hays cried out as he passed through each of the hacienda’s rooms. Despite the darkness, Rangers returned fire, aiming at the muzzle flashes. The lancers, fighting as dragoons with their shortened carbine muskets, traded shots with the Rangers throughout the night.

  By the time the sky brightened, bullets had scarred and gouged the adobe walls around nearly every window in the hacienda. A bedroom facing the hillside behind the building served as a makeshift hospital and morgue. A few men had been hit during the back and forth shooting throughout the night. From one of the windows on the second floor, Hays looked out on the thicket of mesquite near the trail. There were plenty of tell-tale signs of the night’s long battle. Bodies were sprinkled among the trees where they had fallen throughout the night. The dead were easy to see in their brilliant red and blue uniforms.

  A bullet slammed into the adobe wall, inches away from where he stood, showering him in a fine, brown dust. Hays cursed as he involuntarily flinched.

  “Their aim is shit, Major,” a Ranger said as he scrounged through the cartridge box on his hip. “I don’t suppose you’d mind me fetching some more rounds from my saddle bags, sir?”

  The noisy, squealing windmill filled the troughs behind the building. Water wouldn’t be an issue. But Hays began to wonder how long the company’s limited amount of ammunition would hold out. Each ranger had several dozen reloads of .44 caliber ammunition for their pistols and a hundred cartridges of .52 caliber rounds for their rifles, most of which had been stashed in their saddlebags.

  “No need. I’ll send a few of the boys downstairs to fetch it. I’ll see to it that they bring up some for y’all.” Hays retreated downstairs where he ordered several men to bring anything of value from the packs on the horses.

  The sun was high overhead. Hays crumbled some cornbread into a mash of grits and salt pork before wolfing the gruel-like substance down. Food supplies wouldn’t last another day. But as long as the rider returned with a relief force, he and his Rangers could survive a few days without food. It was the ammunition that worried him. Based upon the number of flashes from musket fire, there must have been several hundred men surrounding the hacienda. Once the Rangers' ammunition was gone, he had little doubt the dragooned lancers would charge. What would happen then?

  He worked his way through the building, encouraging the men in each room. His doubts he kept to himself. Even so, he saw the uncertainty in each of his Rangers’ eyes. Sure, it was mixed with bravado and hubris. After all, these men were the best of the Texian army. But below the surface, there was a growing sense of hopelessness in their eyes.

  A white flag fluttered above a fallen tree trunk. The sporadic gunfire from the tree line fell away to an eerie stillness, emphasizing the sound of the flapping flag. The Rangers held their fire as Hays rushed to the front door. An officer in blue and red held the flag and slowly approached the door. Hays expected him to use a knife to stick a letter to the door. Instead, he raised his fist and knocked.

  The sturdy door was pitted and damaged by hundreds of bullets, but it had been made to withstand a siege from rampaging Comanche warriors. The bar was taken down and the door groaned as Hays pulled it open. Hays eyes widened. He had expected a young under-officer. Instead, a middle-aged man with greying hair stood before him. Golden epaulets proclaimed his exalted rank.

  Hays’ voice failed him. Into the silence, the other officer spoke, “Major John Hays, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Of all the scenarios Hays had expected, this wasn’t one of them. He nodded and to his own surprise, he offered his hand.

  The Mexican officer shook it, “General Juan Almonte, at your service.”

  Hays glanced out the door, toward the tree line. Glimpses of uniforms flickered as lancers shifted in their spots where they sheltered behind cover. “You have me at a disadvantage, General Almonte. I wasn’t expecting company this afternoon.”

  Despite a twinkle in his dark eyes, Almonte’s face remained grave. “Yesterday, you chose to fight when I gave you an option of honorable surrender. I do not want to see any more of your men or mine die fighting over this worthless pile of bricks, Major. I hope by coming and speaking directly to you, you will see the wisdom of surrendering. You spoke the truth a moment ago, I have you at a disadvantage. My men outnumber you ten to one. If you surrender, you have my word that you and your men will be treated as prisoners of war. Further, I will endeavor to seek a truce with General Travis to arrange a prisoner exchange.”

  Hays eyed the commander of the Army of the North. In as much as he could be sure of anything, he felt that Almonte was an honorable enemy. But as much as he wanted to believe Almonte, he couldn’t. Any order given by the general could be undone by Santa Anna. “A similar promise was made to Texian soldiers last year by your fellow officer, General Woll. Sixty of our number were marched into the wilderness and executed by your army. How can I possibly trust you when, ultimately, you must answer to your own president? Santa Anna has made clear his policy, sir.”

  The pain in Almonte’s eyes was clear to see. “I’m sorry for you, Major Hays. This fight here will only have one outcome. Of that I can promise. I have done my duty as my Catholic faith demands of me. The blood of your men will be on your head.”

  Hays stood, framed in the doorway. While the words were not unexpected, the melancholy tone caught him off guard. The Mexican general, passing a sentence of death on Hays and his men couldn’t have sounded more miserable.

  Almonte disappeared down the trail and when the white flag disappeared the Mexicans opened fire. Bullets tore into the wooden door and gouged chunks of adobe from the wall. Hays leapt back and slammed the door closed.

  ***

  Throughout the night, the Mexican lancers relentlessly fired at the building. Rifle ammunition had long ago run out. Most of the men had sustained injuries and ten bodies crowded the floor of the back room where they had been laid.

  Two days had passed since the siege began. Even if his rider had managed to escape and get to the army at Monterrey, they would arrive too late. Instead of the deep silence that was common in the dark before dawn, the noise coming from beyond the tree line indicated that Almonte’s lancers had grown tired of the siege. Hays expected them to rush the battered hacienda with the rising of the sun, which was now only minutes away.

  Their rifles were only expensive clubs now, but each Ranger still had their revolver. The range between the hacienda and the tree line had made the pistols a poor choice. But that would change, Hays thought, with the coming of the dawn.

  The thought had crystalized in his mind at the very moment fiery red tendrils of light peeked over the eastern mountains. A clattering of boots over rocky ground indicated the Mexicans had been just as alert as he was. A wall of men in their blue and red lancer uniforms materialized from the tree line. For the most part they carried short cavalry carbines, although, here and there, he saw men carrying their lances.

  A smattering of gunshots whipped from the Mexican line and, as though without orders, they charged across the open ground, less than two hundred feet separating them from their goal.

  Hays cursed as he pulled his Trinity Arms pistol from its holster. This wasn’t how he had imagined things would end. His voice thundered throughout the building, “Give them hell at fifty feet!”

  These men he had trained for more than a year were the best shots in the Texian army. At fifty feet they were as lethal with their revolvers as they had been with their rifles at longer ranges. When the charging line came within the final kill zone, every Ranger aimed their pistol and unloaded six rounds into the line.

  The charging mass of dismounted lancers had run into a wall of lead. Several hundred bullets crashed into the line over the span of ten seconds. Sco
res of men fell, dead and wounded. The wounded cried out, rending the morning dawn with shrieks of pain.

  Scores more slammed into the adobe walls. A heavy wooden beam had been constructed well away from the hacienda during the siege and now was brought to bear against the hacienda’s ventilated door. Muskets were poked into the downstairs windows and triggers were pulled. A thick haze of smoke swirled about the building.

  Less than a dozen strokes from the wooden beam stove in the door. It had withstood more than a few brazen raids by both the Comanche and the Apache, but the concerted effort of scores of lancers overcame the sturdy door. The entry breached, lancers flooded into the building, overwhelming the remaining Rangers. Those who had them, ejected spent cylinders and inserted fresh ones and fired even as they were swarmed over.

  ***

  Silence had barely descended upon the hacienda when General Almonte ignored the pleading of his adjutant and moved back toward the remains of the adobe building. He broke through the tree line and stopped in shock. From the edge of the building to less than twenty paces from it, the ground was carpeted with scores of his men. The Texians, no doubt, had used their revolvers to good effect. But seeing the carnage, it was hard to accept.

  Through the broken door, he watched the survivors of the attack pulling the bodies of wounded and dead men from the adobe building. It was an even mix of tan-uniformed Texians and his own lancers. As he dismounted, a young officer raced over, “Sir, one of the Texians is still alive.”

  Almonte was amazed his lancers, whose blood was up, had allowed any of the enemy to surrender. But when he entered the building, he saw it was not so. Lying in the hallway, he found the young Texian major unconscious, but still breathing. His left arm was badly mangled, where a heavy musket ball had likely shattered the bone. Blood seeped through his jacket where a bullet had hit him in the shoulder. His leg bled from where the tip of a lance had pierced his skin.